A Tribute to Fred Weasley
by Looney Looney Looney Luna
Summary: DEATHLY HALLOWS SPOILERS: Narrated by Fred and George Weasley, we learn the aftermath of the late, great Fred Weasley's death.
1. The First Chapter

**SpoilersSpoilersSpoilersSpoilersSpoilersSpoilersSpoilers**

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**_This is a six part, three chapter tribute to the late and great Fred Weasley. The first part of Chapter One is Fred's point of view, second part George's, and so on._ **

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**A Tribute to Fred Weasley**

_"-You're joking, Perce!" I shouted as the Death Eater I was battling collapsed under the weight of three separate Stunning Spells_.

Pride shot through my blood like butterbeer, and if I'd been the crying sort (and not in the middle of a deadly battle) I might have shed a tear of delight for my brother Percy. Percy! Percy was here, fighting on our side and joking while he was at it! I suppose nearly sixteen years with George and I had rubbed off despite his protests, and loyalty to his family lay where ambition couldn't poison. I still can't pretend I mi-

The Death Eater/Minister of Magic fell brilliantly to the ground with a good amount of spike-sort things pushing grotesquesly through his skin. I grimaced with satisfaction, and then grinned congratulations around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione before turning toward Percy. I still can't pretend I missed the big prat while he was gone, especially after what he did, but he was my brother. My older brother, and even through his dark betrayal I'd wanted to love him. I just hadn't realized it, I guess.

Damn. What was I saying?

I shook my head a bit to clear it of all murkily boring thoughts, reminding myself of what just happened. Glee bounced up and down inside of me, and my teeth flashed a smile: "You actually are joking, Perce...I don't think I've heard you joke since you were-"

A noise even larger than my favourite Decoy Detonater cut me off mid-sentence.

* * *

I dunno where I am and I know exactly where I am and then I've no idea again and then I realise I'm naked but then realise I'm dreaming and then realise that as I've just sat up I can't possible be and then decide a stroll would do me good. 

So I stand and stretch a bit.

The air is very quiet; it bothers me and I whistle to break the silence, bouncing awkwardly forward at an almost casual pace, glancing around me as I go. There's nothing here: white, soothing mist leading me down a tunnel or a-

A passageway! That's where I am! On a passageway! One I've been with George at least a hundred times during forbidden expeditions to Hogsmeade, on our way to collect sweets from Honeydukes and tricks from Zonko's. But how-? The question lingers as my memory winds slowly backwards. Time seems to slow down...or speed up.

Only one thing is certain; I'm not dead.

I'm not.

I'm not.

I'm not!.

"'fraid so!" says dead Uncle Bilius.

Crap.

* * *

**George**

I stand. I brush off my robes. I wipe stale tears from my eyes and move my feet. Left. Right. All my might. My mother doesn't notice, though, as she is hunched over my dead brother. My father is hunched over my dead brother. My brother is hunched over my dead brother. Percy notices, though. Percy notices and turns and makes a hopeless, pinwheeling sort of motion with his arms as he whispers, "What are you doing?"

My initial reaction is to ignore him, shrug his voice off as I did so easily before. And I don't know why I don't, I just don't..."To fight," I say, suprised at my words and the strength in my response. Was I really? Was I really going back to fight? I didn't know that. Huh. But I've said it, so it must be true.

"George, you can't go!" Percy's voice is strangled, "Are you mad?"

"Dunno" I say calmly, moving forward.

"Do you have a death wish!?!"

"Dunno." I have reached the doors.

"George, wait!"

And I do wait. Not out of loyalty or obedience, but because Rubeus Hagrid has just lumbered into the hall with Harry Potter's dead body in his arms.

Harry Potter.

What does that name mean to the wizarding community? He immediately brings to mind a public figure, a hero and a villian. A word in a book and a picture on a newspaper. When George Weasley thinks of him, he's the scrawny kid on my old Quidditch team, best mates with my little brother, and the boy who likes Mum to put a disgustingly large amount of strawberry jam on his toast for breakfast.

Fred Weasley.

What does that name mean to the wizarding community? He immediately brings to mind (if at all) the young and dashing owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, that lurvely shop off Diagon Alley. A photocopy of the what's-his-name other one, always good for a proper laugh!

When George Weasley thinks of him, he's the guy with a birthmark of sparks on his ankle, who sent a girl he fancied in second year a box of dungbombs and was shocked when she got upset. He cried when his pet lizard died on the day of his seventh birthday party and once took a week's worth of detention for a first year who didn't manage to keep her test-box of Skiving Snackboxes out of Filch's sight. He is absolutely brilliant and absolutely barmy and absolutely great and absolutely horrid and absolutely was.

Harry Potter and Fred Weasley are dead.

Who else is gone?

I turn back to Percy and cling to my big brother as the night plays out.

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**_So goes Part One, which is the part actually covering events in the book. I'm not going to bother (Potter Puppet Pals!) describing the whole final battle thing with Harry coming back to life or whatever, but Part Two should be up soon. That'll be the immediate aftermath of Fred's death. And then Part Three is the aftermath of the aftermath. _**

**_PLEASE REVIEW!!! I'M BEGGING YOU!!! Tell me what you loved and what you liked and what you didn't like and what you hated about this story so far!_**


	2. The Second Chapter

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**FRED**

"Welcome home, mate!" dead Uncle Bilius claps me on the back. My knees buckle and my limbs hang limply in gravity, my eyes bugging out as I choke out any remnant of earth air left in my soul. "Can't...breathe," I gasp and promptly fall to my knees. I feel as though I'm about to die, writhing on the ground in vain. Every cell in my body explodes and freezes over simultaneously as my life flashes before my eyes.

I stare up above blankly for a few moments and reflect on this.

"So," I marvel awesomely, "I'm really dead?"

"Yep."

"Siriusly?"

"Absolutely."

Fred Weasley, or whoever the hell I am anymore, says to my dead Uncle Bilius, "Oh, well. That's cool, I suppose." There is a slight pause in our delightful little conversation as I stand and brush off my knees. When I look up again, dead Uncle Bilius is staring off absent-mindedly into the tunnel. "Dead Uncle Bilius?" I question hesitantly.

No response.

"Dead Uncle Bilius!" I shout, my voice echoing against the foggy stone walls.

"Yes- oh, my apologies, my apologies, my dear boy. It's just that- well, you really couldn't have picked a worse time to die. I've got a bet going with Anne Boleyn about the outcome of the battle -which you must know all about of course- and I bet none of the Weasley clan would die. So you see, you've rather disappointed me here."

"Aw, gee. Sorry to have let you down, but I was sure disappointed when I died, too."

Dead Uncle Bilius waves a hand carelessly and sighs, his moustache floating beneath his supernatural breath. He is dressed in a rather odd sort of garb, the sort wizards wore ages ago when they were still being burned at the stake. This makes absolutely no sense to me, as Dead Uncle Bilius is actually rather young- or was when he died- (at least for a wizard) . "Yes. Well, what's done is done, I suppose."

I sigh. "It is." -another pause, as I glance around once more- "So," I say casually, "Where's George?"

"George?"

"George."

"George _Weasley_?"

"No, George Whatsit. Of course George Weasley! Now, where is he?"

"Fred?"

"No, George! G-e-o-r-g-e. Where the hell is he?"

Dead Uncle Bilius shifts his eyes downwards. "Don't swear, young man."

I scowl. Dead Uncle Bilius isn't fun unless he's drunk. Senile can be amusing, but it does get tiring after a while, particularly when you've had a bit of a trying day. "Listen," I say tiredly, scratching my head. I could've sworn I was wearing a hat when I...left. I could have also sworn I was wearing jeans. I glance downward and notice why I've been feeling such a pleasant breeze in places I shouldn't.

Screw it. I've never been one for modesty anyway.

"Listen, Billy," I continue, "I'm all set to go now. I just want to know where my brother's gone."

Dead Uncle Bilius gulps. "You mean, your _twin_ brother?"

I glare.

And suddenly, Uncle Bilius doesn't seem so impatient anymore. His features are softening, he is taking a step closer, he is draping an arm awkwardly around me. "Fred," my uncle says gently, "George isn't coming."

**I **f**r**e**e**z**e.**

**My mind sloshes in icy water, as realisation quietly strangles me.**

"...and with any luck, he won't come for a very long time."

I will not see my brother, my best friend, for up to a hundred years or more. I no longer have a partner in crime, someone to joke around with over the little things, someone to look at and say, "Remember-"

And he'll say, "With the wand?"

And I'll say, "And then-"

And he'll say, "Yeah! Let's-"

And I'll say, "Right on! Meet you in Filch's office at-"

And he'll say, "Can't, detention tonight, but how about-"

And I'll say, "Done."

I will not ever marry or have children or see my children's children or my nephews or my nieces. My last words to my mum were, "But I don't like corn beef!" and my last act-

Well, actually, my last act in life was pretty fucking cool.

But that goes without saying.

* * *

**GEORGE**

The first few days are there. They are there. No escaping them.

It was painful the first night. I mourned and tears were my only consolant. Tears were my only consolant.

I wept with my family by my side the first day. I wept by myself the first night. I wept by myself the second day and the third and the fourth and the fifth, and through my blurry eyes I saw what was happening around me. I saw what was happening around me and I hated myself for it. I hated myself when I saw my mother setting funeral arrangements for her son and all the dead in need, even those she never knew, just to ensure that no soldier left forgotten. I hated myself when I saw my younger brother and his friends, rather than mourning their own losses, helping others with theirs. I hated myself when I saw Ron 'n Hermione 'n Harry, at the age of eighteen, setting up charities at their new Ministry of Magic, I hated myself when I saw Ginny visiting the Creevey family, Dad at work round the clock -without any pay whatsoever-, and Percy, always the sensible one, working furiously to restore order in Diagon Alley. Bill and his wife were tending to battle victims and Charlie was helping identify the victimsvictimsvictims and inform their often muggle families.

I was a selfish bastard, and I hated myself for it.

Everyone else I knew was suitably devastated over my brother's death, yet they were going on to ensure that everything would work out all right in the end. In essence, going on to ensure that the living didn't become the dead.

Not me. Naw, good ol' me sat on my arse in the dark and stared into space. And wept.

Which would have been a great deal easier if my family was as disgusted with me as I was with myself.

Dad breaks down the door after a week (muggle-fashion. Merlin knows...) to ensure that I am still there (and haven't committed suicide). Mum joins the party. When she sees me sitting on my bed (by which point I've enough warning to clear any trace of emotion off my face), she flings herself towards my empty body in a hug and breaks down more than the door, sobbing into my shoulder. She leaves after a bit. I am not annoyed. She is my mother. I am her son.

I hear Bill and Fleur sometimes. Once Bill threatened me. He said if I didn't come out soon, he'd make me. I didn't respond. He didn't make me. Fleur whimpered some sort of direction to him, something like, "Eeen France wee know..." I didn't really understand. I guess Bill didn't either, because he didn't bother me again.

I might as well mention Charlie here, as I seem to be mentioning everyone else. Honestly, I haven't heard from him ages. I don't mind.

I don't mind my sister, either. Ginny knocks gently on the door every morning and afternoon and night, whispering through the peephole that she's left my breakfast and dinner and supper beneath the doorframe. I open my blistered door about ten minutes after her footsteps have faded, and sometimes I bring the plate into Fred's room. Sometimes I even eat food off it.

I have a working chamber pot. It is seriously sick. I've my wand, though, so cleaning it isn't too problematic. And while this may have made it seem I have got life made in my cozy little room, I still am forced to venture outwards after three weeks. Stretch my legs. See the world. Or my backyard, at least. I wouldn't dare yet Apparate outside the burrow. The protective enchantments make that impossible. Might even set off an alarm. Alert the family.

And I have taken every possible safety I could imagine in order to avoid alerting my family. The sky is black when I step outside, black velvet smothering me in the summer air. Fresh summer air. Fresh air that I breathe in and my eyes pop and my molecules fly and where's my broom? I've got to go, it's three in the morning and no one can see me, no one can hear me, I shall fly up into the sky and there will be no death or danger or fright or happiness or love or anything where I am going. I slither at the broom shed.

"George?" a voice bleats, slicing through my lovely black velvet with cruel precision. I do not see who the voice is, but I jerk back to reality and raise my defenses, wobbling backwards with my wand raised. "Who?" I croak in response to the bleat, as I have not spoken in weeks. "Who? Are? You?"

A pale, glowing hand comes to rest hesitantly on my shoulder, and the voice floats up at me again, "Er, George, it's er, me, er Ron."

And I relax. "Back off, prat."

"What?" he says stupidly.

I stride away coolly and promptly trip headfirst over a lawn chair.

My lips part to release a wild string of words so twisted that I am shocked my tongue doesn't fall off, and Ron dares to giggle in his stupid eighteen year old way. A light does go on, though, so I would have given him credit for that, only it becomes obvious in the wake of the Alohomora that it was not my terribly helpful brother giving me a spot of help, but his bloody girlfriend.

"Hello, George," smiles Hermione Granger nervously. Her face is red and her hands are shaking and slipping between her wand. She jabs Ron in the gut. He hiccups and takes a step forward, studying me carefully. "George?" he asks quietly, suddenly serious.

"Ron?"

"How are you?"

"Sensational."

"Oh."

"You?"

"Fi-Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"I'm leaving now."

"George!"

"Yes?"

"Er."

"Yes?"

"What are you doing here?" he blurts with his shoulders slumped and hands stuffed nervously in his pocket, looking down as soon as he finishes his question. He looks up again quickly, though, with wide eyes taking in my appearance. Hermione stands next to him, elbow to elbow, studying the scene about us as well. Two boys, similiar in appearance (but obviously not twins), stand in the dewy, uncut grass. Both wear t-shirts, one jeans and the other pajama-like sweatpants. The older is barefoot, but the younger has trainers tied on his large feet, a very old and obviously hand-me-down pair with _FW_ etched onto the side in faded ink.

What _am_ I doing here?

I've my own apartment, a place all to myself. I own it and could very well stay there without being bothered. Might as well say so. "I don't know," I look straight into Ron's eyes. "I suppose I'll move my arse out, if that's what you'd really like."

Ron gapes at me. "No, I mean-"

I wait patiently as he sputters and spits and hums his way to meaning. I lifts my watch and squint: 3:42 a.m, 67 degrees, and the sun will rise at 6:18 am.

"No, but seriously- I mean- George, you know, like- uh-"

I rest my forehead against the broomshed and watch my chest rise and fall with each steady breath I take. Abosposostively fascinating, right?

Hermione steps in. "George?" she questions tentatively.

My feet are going cold. I lift my head and hop from one to the other to warm them up. "Yeah," I say in between jumping jacks. "What's up?" I am unrested, unsettled, and I break this tension with motion. I really haven't moved in days on end, I feel lazy and itchy and dirty.

"Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?" she glances at the watch on Ron's wrist, "...I mean, this afternoon?"

"What funeral?"

"What funeral? Er, the one at Sloof Lirpa Burial Ground..."

"Sloof Lirpa? What sort of name is that for a cemetary?" says me as I huff and puff so hard I could've been in Hufflepuff.

Ha. Hogwarts humour.

"He said he liked the name when he saw it. He said when he was seven he buried his pet lizard there. It's his ashes we're burying, actually."

"Ah," I say. "It's Fred's funeral, is it? Cos Fred is dead, you see. Fred...dead. Dead Fred. HAHAHA! Dead Fred, funny ring there, innit?"

I do believe I've got slightly mad at my first contact with anyone not within my head since the battle. I dunno. Just a half hour ago I was...maybe not healthy, but at least appropriately upset. Now I seem to be babbling worse then Xenophilius Lovegood. What is wrong with me? This frightens me, this inner turmoil, and I don't understand how to solve it.

"George, would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, no, maybe so!"

At least I've recognized the source of my madness. That has to be a step forward, isn't it? But no. I've broken my nearly month long numbness with over the top emotion. I hardly call that an improvement.

I am led gently inside by the crook of my elbow, my feet willingly stumbling after the leader, and hands push my shoulders down -hard- as we reach a chair within the Burrow. I collapse, giggling madly. "Of course I'll go to dead Fred's funeral!"

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**A/N: I've got a lot of problems with this chapter. A lot. And I can't quite put my finger on them. PLEASE help me figure out what I need to fix, whether it be description or characterization or whatever. PLEASE review!**


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